Texting Sherlock
by MondaysChild42
Summary: The only piece of Sherlock John has left is the ability to text him. And he does, a lot. Even though he thinks Sherlock is dead he still talks to him. But Sherlock is getting the texts. A lot of this is based off a tumblr post which inspired this; so thank you to those people and I hope you don't mind.


For Sherlock, the worst part about being dead was John. Not the mind-numbing boredom, or the wish to go out and kill Moriartys' men. Not even watching Greg, Mrs Hudson and Molly move on from him. It was John and his text messages.

Sherlock found it ironic how John never posted on his blog after the fall. Apparently, without Sherlock, he could find nothing to talk about. But every day he texted Sherlock, with the smallest most insignificant things. Sherlock knew that he should find it illogical; texting someone who was dead. But he couldn't and every text message tore his heart apart even though he knew he had 'died' for Johns safety. Still, when it had come to John Sherlock had never been able to find logic. Being around John was not logical

Sometimes the texts where desperate, begging Sherlock to come back, asking him why? But Sherlock could never answer. Sometimes the texts where angry, with John furiously typing out sentences that blamed and hurt Sherlock. Other times they where sad, John saying he missed Sherlock, wishing that he hadn't jumped.

But the worst type were the ones where nothing important, nothing deep happened. It was just John texting Sherlock like he always had. It was like John would forget for a moment that Sherlock was dead. He would mention he was in Tescos, talk about a triple murder in the paper or just comment on the weather.

These were the worst because Sherlocks finger itched to text back, in that casual way. Almost like he had never died. He wanted to remind John not to forget the milk, that the murderer was obviously the sister or tell him to stop complaining about the rain. They hurt the most because they were John, they weren't sad or damaged, they were just John and Sherlock missed John so much.

But worse than all of those were the voicemails. Occasionally, during one of Johns bad times, he would call Sherlock. Sherlock would watch his phone as it rang, gripping the arms of his armchair to stop him from reaching out for it. Eventually it would reach voicemail and Johns voice would begin. It would sound broken but it was still John and Sherlock would stare at the wall as he listened. It was the closest to John Sherlock could get and the sound of his voice drove Sherlock to the edge. The messages where honest and mournful, sometimes slightly desperate. Every now and then John sounded drunk or angry, although he always apologised when he yelled. But the guilt was still with Sherlock.

John stumbled onto the stairs. He couldn't make it upstairs. Again. The pain and sadness was overwhelming. He closed his fists and curled up on the bottom step. If John could breathe from the ache in his chest he would scream but he can't. Hopefully Mrs Hudson wouldn't find him there. She did once. Instead of coming towards him and comforting him, she stood there for a while. Until the tears stopped rolling down his fave and he could meet her eyes. When he looked up he saw that she had been crying as well. They had gone to the kitchen and sat together in silence over a cup of tea. Johns turned cold before he drank it. They hadn't said a word as John had rose and walked steadily up the stairs to his flat and she had closed the door of hers.

Yes, he didn't want to watch Mrs Hudson cry with him again. There are days where John can't even make the stairs and he slumps against the staircase and holds his head in his hands, wondering why of all the things that had to be taken away from him it had to be Sherlock. He needed Sherlock. There were billions of people out there who could of died instead but not Sherlock.

His hands found his phone and, without him really meaning to, his fingers typed in the familiar numbers. The phone rang several times before the voice message began. It's a ridiculous sounding message, but so inherently Sherlock, spoken in that bored and exasperated tone John knew too well: "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Don't bother leaving a message if it isn't pertinent to a case. I don't have to tell you what to do after the Tone, do I?"

John smiles to himself as the tone sounds. That's Sherlock. Right there. The stupid, snobby git side of Sherlock. But it's still him. There's silence for a moment as John thinks of what to say. Today is they type of day where he leaves a voicemail. On the spur of the moment John opens his mouth and says the words that were always there. The words that he often had to stop himself saying, as Sherlock examined something under a microscope or threw another bored temper tantrum. The words that he wished he had said but he never got the chance. "I love you"

John had hung up after he had left the message. Sherlock had stood there, staring at his phone. No, no. It was all wrong. John had never, he wasn't even gay. No. But he just said. But he can't have, Sherlock would've known, wouldn't he? He hadn't guessed about Molly but John? Maybe. It was all to confusing.

John had only ever said it once, in that phone call, but once was enough. Sherlock knew. John continued texting him as if he had never said it but he had and it had changed Sherlocks perspective a lot.

But still Sherlock did not reply. It was still too dangerous for him to return.

John was in Tescos. He had just texted Sherlock, asking him if he wanted anything, knowing that he'd never get a reply. But he tried to avoid that thought as when he thought about Sherlock being gone the pain of it tore through him like a knife. He hated it but he still texted Sherlock because when he pressed the send button he could pretend for a moment. Pretend Sherlock was alive. Pretend he would get an answer.

But he never would.

He strode through the aisles, pushing thoughts of Sherlock to the back of his mind. The cool breeze from the dairy section refrigerator brought goosebumps to his arms. That was when the phone inside his pocket buzzed. John stopped dead. No one texted him. And right after he had sent... No. It was impossible. He had to stop hoping like that. It was probably a wrong number, or maybe one of those return messages. He casually pulled out of his coat pocket, trying, trying to keep his hopes down but knowing that when he saw it wasn't Sherlock his heart would break all over again.

As he read the message his eyes widened and his breath escaped in a gasp. The phone fell from his hand, cracking the screen as it hit the floor. The basket in his other hand dropped as well, spilling the food across the supermarkets' Lino floor.

John ignores the groceries as he runs. He runs out of Tescos, not caring about the people he pushes past or the surprised staff. Tears of happiness and confusion blur his vision as he fumbles with his car keys.

Back inside the shop the phone lies there. It's screen is cracked but the message is still readable. The message is:

I'm sorry John, come home and don't forget the milk. -SH

As John drives back to 221B Baker Street only two thoughts are understandable in his whirling mind. The first one, which makes him laugh slightly hysterically, is 'I forgot the milk'. The second one, the main one, which he can hardly believe is,"I never stopped believing in you, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
